


Battleship Grey and Carmine Red

by siriusblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, Secrets, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 13:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16409465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: Banksy. Greg's boss wants him arrested. Greg thinks he's overreacting. Greg's new boyfriend has no opinion but where Sherlock uses drugs to alleviate boredom, Mycroft has another method.





	Battleship Grey and Carmine Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LydSqd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydSqd/gifts).



> Written for Lydsqd who donated generously to the Mark Gatiss Birthday Project. Thank you, my.lovely and I hope you enjoy it.

BATTLESHIP GREY AND CARMINE RED

  
  
  


Banksy. The DCS hates him. Greg Lestrade keeps his own counsel as he's been tasked with giving the street artist more than an ASBO. His new boyfriend, minor government official and Sherlock wrangler, Mycroft Holmes has no opinion on the matter but Mycroft's got a secret. Sherlock uses drugs to alleviate boredom. Mycroft has another method...

  
  
  


_ The cameras would be down in Gresham Street that night. Routine maintenance. He loved getting a tip off like that, it made fulfilling his passion so much simpler. _

 

_ Even he had to admit, it was one of his better works. One small boy standing on the crouched back of his friend with a quote guaranteed to give the police officer determined to bring him down a serious headache.  _

 

_ There was a huge grin under the balaclava he was wearing and it didn't diminish when he pulled it off and stuffed it in the gym bag beside the used spray paint tins and stencils. _

 

_ In his dark tracksuit he was just another guy on his way to or from the gym. It was a disguise that had served him well over time. _

 

_ He swore as he checked his watch. If he didn't hurry, he'd be late for his rendezvous which would be completely unacceptable. _

 

_ * _

 

“He's taking the piss!” The DCS was in a lovey mood this morning, Greg thought but forced himself to concentrate. It wouldn't pay to appear disinterested when the Guv was on the warpath, gesticulating at the elderly display unit which worked when it felt like it.

 

With a click of a button a miracle occurred and Banksy's latest masterpiece filled the screen.

 

“ _ Graffiti is a crime? _ ” quoted one of the DC’s with a chuckle.

 

Greg had to stifle a laugh of his own. It really was a work of art compared to the usual gang tags and other attempts at creativity he spotted all around London.

 

Ever since the panda with a gun in each hand had appeared on the wall in Brixton swiftly followed by others of equal or greater merit, everyone wanted to know who this Banksy character was but they had drawn a blank.

 

Even the local street artists who would cheerfully sell out their Granny if they thought it would be to their advantage remained close mouthed. As Banksy's popularity increased, so did the interest in their own creations and there was no way they would give up their patron saint even if they knew who he was. 

 

“It's not fucking funny!” The DCS raged. “Lestrade. I want you and Donovan on this. Find him, and when you do, charge him with whatever you can think of, including putting up my blood pressure.”

 

“Guv,” conceded Greg. “We're actually working on that armed robbery in…”

 

“Hand it over to Dimmock. I want you to give this case your full attention, Lestrade. Is that understood?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

As they left the briefing room, Sally Donovan grimaced.

 

“We were doing really well with the Knightsbridge case,” she complained. “Now Dimmock will get all the glory. Why doesn't he hand this Banksy thing off to uniform?”

 

Greg grinned at her, seeing himself not so many years ago. Newly promoted to CID and hungry for praise and results.

 

“He already has,” Greg explained as they reached the coffee machine and Greg poured out two cups of the noxious brew. “Uniform has been after this guy for ages but no luck. Guy's like a ghost. He always seems to know when CCTV will be down and that's where he makes his mark. We've investigated CCTV operators, security guards, even the odd traffic warden. Nothing.”

 

“And what makes the Super think we can find him. Or her?”

 

Greg shrugged.

 

“Dunno. But we've got to give it a try.”

 

Greg felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket, signalling he had a text message. He took out his phone and read it.

 

_ Had a wonderful time last night. Are you free tomorrow? I know somewhere that does the most exquisite Italian food you've ever tasted. MH. xx _

 

Greg smiled and felt himself blush as he texted back.

 

_ Sounds great. Just tell me when and where xx _

 

He looked up to see Sally grinning at him.

 

“Must be love,” she teased. “You've gone very red. Things going well with your mystery man I take it?”

 

“Very well.” laughed Greg. “In fact…”

 

“One of your shaved apes has just tried to tell me you're off the Knightsbridge case. Is it true?”

 

As if his day wasn't gloomy enough, Sherlock had appeared seemingly out of the ether and scowling like the world's sulkiest toddler.

 

“Hello, Freak.” said Sally, glaring at him.

 

Sherlock ignored her, his intense stare focused on Greg.

 

“Yeah, Sherlock. We're looking into something different now.” Greg replied.

 

“Such as?”

 

“Banksy. We need to find out who they are and charge them before the DCS has a stroke.” Sally chimed in.

 

Sherlock snarled at her but there was no real heat in it. He turned his attention to Greg again.

 

“That is unacceptable. Being crushed under my brother's colossal weight during sex has clearly starved you of oxygen and damaged your deductive abilities if you're being fobbed off with something an infant could solve in about ten seconds.”

 

“Your brother is not fat.” Greg said sternly. “If you know who Banksy is, tell us. The quicker we arrest them, the quicker we're back to trying to solve something you might define as interesting.”

 

“No. Boring.” Sherlock replied and was gone as quickly as he had arrived.

 

“I don't know how you put up with him,” fumed Sally.

 

“I wonder myself.” Greg agreed.

 

“Are you really seeing his brother?”

 

Greg sighed but the cat was already out of that particular bag so…

 

“Yes. And before you say anything, they're nothing alike. Mycroft is something very special. We're taking it slowly for now. Well, with my track record I don't dare do anything else. And I think I've shared quite enough for one day.”

 

Sally patted him on the arm.

 

“I'm happy for you, Greg. Honestly.”

 

“Yeah, well. Why don't we go through the statements again? See if there's anything we missed.”

 

As he poured his fourth cup of coffee that morning, his mobile sounded again.

 

_ My brother has two Master's degrees from Cambridge. When you see him tomorrow, ask him in what. SH. _

 

Greg shook his head and put his phone away.

 

*

 

The following night, Greg found the restaurant Mycroft had told him about with little difficulty. He was told that Mycroft was already there and was shown to his table. 

 

This would be their fifth date and each time Greg discovered a little more about the enigmatic older Holmes. Each time they grew more physical with Mycroft dictating the pace and Greg as a most willing partner. Mycroft deserved to be courted in Greg's opinion.

 

In black trousers and a blue striped shirt under a navy cashmere sweater Mycroft was lovely enough to take Greg's breath away and Greg was happy he had made an effort with his own appearance. Mycroft looked approving, so he must have done something right.

 

“Hello, Greg.” said Mycroft with a teasing smile.

 

“Hi. This looks very nice,” said Greg approvingly as he looked around the restaurant.

 

“It is. I recommend the seafood linguini.”

 

“Can't.” Greg said regretfully. “Shellfish allergy.”

 

“Ah. The more you know, eh?” Mycroft said. “In that case I will also abstain. Wouldn't want you breaking out in a rash should things become more intimate later.”

 

Greg smiled and took Mycroft's hand from where it lay on the snowy white tablecloth in his own. Such long delicate fingers and pale skin on his wrist. Greg's own fingers caressed the soft skin there and felt Mycroft's pulse begin to thunder. Freckles starting just above his shirt cuff like tiny coppery dots except for…

 

“Did you know you've got ink on your wrist?” Greg asked.

 

Frowning, Mycroft examined himself and sighed.

 

“It's paint, not ink. I thought I'd managed to shift it all.”

 

“I didn't know I was dating an artist,” teased Greg.

 

Mycroft was blushing which delighted Greg even more.

 

“I'm just a dauber. Nothing special. Even with a degree in fine art.”

 

“Do you need a model? My rates are very reasonable.”

 

Mycroft gave him a stern look.

 

“Gregory Lestrade. Are you offering to pose nude for me?”

 

“I'll take my clothes off for you any time you like,” Greg laughed but there was a naughty twinkle in his eye. “Just ask “

 

Mycroft gave him a thoroughly lascivious look which had Greg rejoicing in his head. Perhaps tonight he would find out precisely what was under Mycroft's exquisite tailoring. Greg imagined the man would look incredible wearing nothing but moonlight. 

 

As the waiter poured the wine the two men chatted, the sexual tension still there but simmering in the background.

 

“How's things at the office?” Greg asked.

 

“Tedious in the extreme.” Mycroft replied. “It's not exactly glamorous at the DoT. Motorway plans, CCTV maintenance schedules, bus route planning and trying to stop the Minister killing the TFL representative. Still, I look on it as a stepping stone.”

 

He sipped his wine before repeating the question to Greg.

 

“My boss has a bee in his bonnet. Ever heard of Banksy?”

 

“Yes of course.”

 

“Guv wants him arrested.”

 

“Whatever for? His work brings joy to a lot of people.”

 

“Not to my boss. And he's getting a lot more political. Can't have the tourists put off so he's got to be stopped. It's a shame. Some of his work is incredible.”

 

Mycroft took a hefty slug of wine and almost choked when Greg said

 

“Sherlock knows who he is but he won't say.”

 

“No doubt my brother finds it too boring to contemplate. It seems our meals are approaching.” Mycroft said, delighted by the distraction.

 

*

 

The next morning Greg awoke early. He wasn't used to this bed or sharing it with its other glorious occupant. The only part of Mycroft that was visible was a tuft of auburn hair but Greg was pleased to have been right. A naked Mycroft was a beautiful Mycroft. They had made love for hours and Greg had been delighted to discover the outwardly prim civil servant had more than a few tricks up his sleeve.

 

Greg realised he would be late for work if he didn't go soon, so he crept out of bed and gathered his clothes, heading for the bathroom.

 

He left a note on the kitchen table and let himself out. The Tube was crowded with early commuters and Greg was pleased to get off and into Scotland Yard where there was coffee and doughnuts.

 

Sally was already there and, taking one look at his disheveled appearance, began to smirk.

 

“Somebody did the walk of shame this morning!” she crowed.

 

“Shut up,” muttered Greg and she smirked even harder, then her expression changed to one of disgust as Sherlock walked in and halted in front of Greg with a theatrical swirl of his Belstaff.

 

“Well?” Sherlock demanded. “When will you be reassigned?”

 

“Look, Sherlock,” said Greg patiently. “I told you yesterday we would be on this Banksy thing for the foreseeable. Are you sure you're clean right now? I've heard strong drugs can impair the memory.”

 

“Gavin..” Sherlock began.

 

“Greg,” muttered Greg.

 

“You already have enough information to find the culprit. I surmise you didn't get to be a DS on good looks and charm alone. Think! Think particularly about what you learned yesterday. Text me when it's done.”

 

Then he stalked out leaving the two detectives staring at each other.

 

“What did he mean?” Sally asked.

 

Greg remembered Sherlock's text and fragments of the conversation at dinner. Then it started to come together and he felt sick.

 

“Greg! Are you okay? You're white as a sheet.”

 

“I'm fine.” Greg muttered. “Get your coat and we'll go and interview the security guard at that building site again. See if we can jog his memory.”

 

*

 

_ Clunk. Clunk. The last of the paint tins dropped into the bag, swiftly followed by the balaclava and Banksy set off for home at a light jog. He was looking forward to a light supper and a long hot soak in the bath before bed. He was proud of his latest masterpiece and considered it a tribute to the man he was falling so hard for in spite of himself. _

 

_ There was a familiar figure waiting outside his building and he felt his heart sink. The figure jettisoned a lit cigarette and he watched it drop like a dying firefly. So much for the nicotine patches. Nothing like finding out your lover has been lying to you to get you back on the fags. Squaring his shoulders, he approached. _

 

“Hello, Greg. I wasn't expecting to see you tonight.” 

 

Greg stood there with his arms folded, his face an unreadable mask.

 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Greg asked.

 

“Tell you what?” Mycroft asked, playing for time.

 

“Don't treat me like an idiot, Mycroft. I get enough of that from your brother. You're Banksy. And if I were to open that gym bag I bet I'd find more than a sweaty jockstrap and a water bottle.”

 

“Can we talk about this inside?” Mycroft pleaded. “Please, Greg.”

 

“Okay,” said Greg with a shrug.” Let's go.”

 

Inside his apartment, Mycroft dumped the bag and turned to his lover.

 

“You're absolutely right, Greg. I am Banksy. Edward Mycroft Banks Holmes to be precise. Sherlock has his drugs to alleviate the tedium of existence. I have this. The power to create, to cause controversy. The adrenaline rush at the thought that I might get caught. Until recently it was the only thing which kept me from going insane with boredom. If it makes it any better, since I met you and hoped that our relationship would thrive, I have decided that I must stop. Either that or lose you forever and I could not bear that. In the end the temptation was too much. One last fling, if you will. So now you must do whatever you feel you must with me.”

 

Greg looked at him, no pity in those chocolate brown eyes and he frowned.

 

“My boss wants you arrested. He would be delighted if I brought you in and it certainly wouldn't hurt my promotion prospects but here's the thing. I'm not gonna do that.”

 

He forestalled Mycroft's attempt to speak by raising his hand.

 

“I'm not gonna do that because I honestly don't think you've done any harm. It'd be different if you'd murdered someone but all you've done is share your talent with the world. There's another thing.”

 

Greg swallowed heavily and looked Mycroft in the eye.

 

“I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you. Do you still want us to keep seeing each other, even after this?”

 

“More than anything for the feeling is mutual.”

 

Greg smiled at that and Mycroft felt the tension easing from his body.

 

“Good. Two conditions.Never, ever lie to me again. Well, not about anything important anyway. Telling me my shirt looks wonderful or similar doesn't count. And two, contact my boss and tell him that Banksy is officially retired. I mean it, Mycroft. You've got an incredible talent but you should use more conventional ways of showing it.”

 

“I agree with all of that,” said Mycroft. “I will contact your superior first thing tomorrow.”

 

“Good.” Greg replied. “How about a kiss to seal the deal?”

 

Mycroft took Greg into his arms and held him very close, kissing Greg with a greater passion than he had ever known.

 

“I think we can do better than a kiss, don't you?” he asked when they paused for breath.

 

“Oh, yeah.” Greg said and kissed him again.

 

*

 

“Get in here, Lestrade!” the DCS bellowed.

 

“Guv?” Greg tried his best to look politely puzzled. He knew what this was about.

 

His boss shoved a large brown envelope at him.

 

“Read that, then file it in the deepest, dampest corner of the archive. The Banksy case is officially closed.”

 

Greg reached into the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper and a Polaroid photo. He read the paper first.

 

_ To Whom It May Concern _

 

_ I, Banksy, do hereby announce that I have officially retired. I will be producing no more street art so you can call off the dogs. _

 

_ This final piece is a tribute to the excellent Metropolitan Police. _

 

_ Banksy. _

 

The photograph was of Banksy's last painting. Two uniformed male officers in a passionate embrace. 

 

As Greg left the office he was smiling.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Banksy is a real artist and if you haven't checked out their works before I heartily encourage you to do so.


End file.
